It’s too late to turn back, to wind time in reverse, to climb down out of the window, to retreat back through the Capitol halls, and the tall grass, and the Trump years, back to the pony at the 7-Eleven and the Milky Way bar. Too late because it was already too late then. It always has been. We’ve got to go through it. The Whiteness, this stolen land. Into the smoky, copper-bright uncertain, reckoning with the haunted past, which is hard, learning to love the smoldering days ahead, which is harder.
